


i rot the ground that guides your way

by chxrryb0mb



Series: unholy [2]
Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: Brief Smut, F/M, Face Sitting, JD's POV, POV Third Person Limited, Penetrative Sex, dumbass gets in his feelings for nothing, monster au, please read "unholy" for context, reupload bc i fucked it up before, unholy universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chxrryb0mb/pseuds/chxrryb0mb
Summary: She doesn’t feel like the girls he scoops off the streets. She’s softer, warmer, better. She smells better, tastes better, and he thinks if there’s any chance God is real, it has to be her.(unholy, jd's pov)
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Series: unholy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201514
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	i rot the ground that guides your way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Weliany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weliany/gifts), [Alexandra_dAutriche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandra_dAutriche/gifts).



> 3/12/21 note: hi, some of the content in this may not match up with the original Unholy as it has been rewritten. Keep that in mind.
> 
> this does not strictly follow the scenes of unholy. i added other moments in. for weli, sorry i deleted the other fic <3 i have a deleting issue lol. love you.
> 
> and alex, as I think this is down your lane. I know you mentioned liking the verse so emotional monster jd should please you. (Also I owe you for looking for a bil copy)
> 
> thank you to sassybluee for editing.

_I'm evil knocking at your door_   
_I'm evil making you my whore_   
_I don't mind if you take what's yours_   
_But give me mine_

* * *

He never planned on stalking her, but sometimes these things just happen.

She has her back turned to him, attention trained on the puzzle scattered across her coffee table. The television flickers idly in front of her. It’s for sound, he thinks. She likes sound; lets the radio play when he knows she’s not really listening. _Humans,_ he thinks, are weird.

Outside her apartment, the world continues. He has a far drop below him, lively streets with whizzing cars, and he’s secured only by his grip on the balcony above him, hanging upside down. She’s probably expecting him sometime soon -- he always shows back up after dinner time. He just wants to take his time.

She’s easy to watch. Because of her oblivion, because she’s _different,_ and sometimes that’s all he thinks about. His hair blows in his face when the wind brushes past him and he blinks a few times, irritated. She freezes, pointer finger hanging in the air, questioning, and he readies himself for her to turn around.

But she doesn’t. 

“ _Aha!”_ It’s an excited shriek that comes with the fitting of a puzzle piece. She snaps it into place, satisfied with herself, and he can only roll his eyes because _fuck, Ronnie._

When he drops into her apartment (literally _drops_ ) it’s silent. She’s finished eating dinner already, he can see the plates in the sink, and she still has her glass of water abandoned on the table, ice slowly melting. She’s on schedule this time.

Their schedule was never really established, or much less even called one. It was just something that happened; she ate and waited for him, he ate and came back to her. It varied on her job times. They don’t speak of it, to his disdain, because the whole _eating people_ thing is a little too much for her, but they have an agreement. He might not understand humans, but he understands her. Somewhat.

The closer he nears her, the better view he gets. It’s a cat puzzle, half completed. She snaps another piece in. The floor creaks noisily with another step as he moves forward, and she finally takes the hint.

“Was wondering when you’d come,” She says and turns around, fingers tapping her jaw. He looks at the brown of her eyes, feels the warmth of her smile and scratches his nails against her thigh. She looks like porcelain.

“Was watching you,” His words are a mumble. She doesn’t manage to catch them, he thinks. He settles beside her before she can question it. He might not see anything wrong with his stalking, really, he’s doing it because he _has_ to, but she doesn’t take too kindly to it.

It hurts to leave her alone. An itch in his skull that he’s tried to get rid of; ripped his hair out and scratched at his skin just to try and get it to stop, but it doesn’t. And she’s just a little too fragile for his liking, covered in scars and bruises and he might somehow have a heart attack if he has to watch her trip down the entrance stairs again. And the car, the fucking _car._

A slight sneer tugs at his expression. She won’t even try and listen to him about that one. _I’m not going to turn into a twisted pretzel,_ he can imagine her voice. It doesn’t mean anything. He dreads the day her car wraps around a tree.

She’s in her sleep clothes already: loose, holey pants that look older than he is (little bit of an exaggeration, maybe) and a shirt with a logo that he can barely understand. He doesn’t mind it, the clothes smell like her. He likes her smell.

He noses at her jaw, forces his way into her hold, and she puts her arm around him like they’re normal lovers. Holds him like the people he sees on tv, and for a quick moment in time, he feels normal.

**XXX**

She feels different.

She doesn’t feel like the girls he scoops off the streets. She’s softer, warmer, better. She smells better, tastes better, and he thinks if there’s any chance God is real, it has to be her.

She trembles beneath him, afraid, but not unwilling. She wants him, he knows she wants him. He kisses over the freckled expanse of her stomach, her nervous fingers in his hair, and for a moment, he considers sinking his teeth into her flesh and just taking her right there; ripping her apart and making her a part of him forever. He’d sleep with her heart, taking his time to eat it. She’d never be forgotten.

She squirms, fingers twisting painfully in his locks, and he yearns for it again, knows he can’t have it -- her -- if he does act on those things. He remembers that she likes being alive. He likes her alive.

His jaw strains, a tooth threatening to push past his lips and his fingers scrunch the bedsheets, nails piercing fabric.

He can’t say he has some sob story. He doesn’t really love things, it isn’t in him. It’s so incredibly human to do that, and he’s so incredibly not. To cry that everything he loves has died would just be bullshit.

He doesn’t really love things, but he thinks this time it might be different.

He worries about her, and it’s more than he can ever say for anybody else. She’s supposed to be his dinner, maybe even a past time snack — not somebody he takes to bed and lives to see the next day. He can’t remember the last night he even let somebody live after fucking them, much less watch over them.

And it’s so disgustingly lovey-dovey because that’s all he seems to do when she isn’t where he wants her to be. Stomping around on her car, sitting on her rooftop, redefining the word _asshole_ all so her heart still beats, and for what? So she can die on him one day?

His mouth reaches the waistband of her underwear and she makes a quiet sound, a nervous one.

\--he doesn’t want to think about that day. He doesn’t want to think about any of it.

She whimpers quietly, teeth caught over her lip, his hands on her thighs. He likes her taste, nothing like her blood, but still sweet. He supposes this is his indulgence. This is the part of her he _can_ have without killing her. The one thing he indigenously shares with her: lust.

He wonders when this will all crumble. Maybe before she hits thirty, and realizes what he can’t give to her. Maybe he’ll take her before then, figure something out, because he really isn’t down to say _goodbye._

Her hands shoot down to his hair, knotting into the brown locks and he hums against her. 

He has an idea, a shitty one, albeit, but it’s an idea. She just won’t like it, but he doesn’t care. He’s not losing her.

He holds her a little tighter that night.

**XXX**

He knows he shouldn’t have done it, but he doesn’t necessarily regret it. He gurgles mouthwash, trying his best to wash out the taste of flesh before she can get home and kiss him. She’s grocery shopping, not too far from him. He’s on borrowed time.

He’s sick of not having time with her anymore. He’s sick of her co-workers and her boss and every little excuse she ever told him. It’s been years since he killed outside of food. It’s okay if he slipped up.

He scratches at his tooth, pulling out a piece of skin, licking away the blood. She isn’t going to be happy with him, but she’ll understand eventually. Her boss was just another block in the road.

**XXX**

She doesn’t take it well. He didn’t expect her to, but he didn’t think it would be this bad.

Veronica’s pissed, to say the very least, but he doesn’t think _pissed_ covers the tears on her face. He hears her throat go raw; her beautiful voice is nothing more than a coarse whisper by the time he says, “I’m sorry, Ronnie. Darling, really, I’m _sorry_.”

**XXX**

He’s a little bit of a fool, he knows that by now. A lovesick fool, and he isn’t ashamed of it. He loves her, loves, loves, loves. She’s the only thing he thinks about from the time he wakes up to the time he goes to sleep.

Veronica tried to lock him out, but the window isn’t really a problem for him anymore. He got past it before, he can get past it again. They mostly just fuck their anger away. He lets her pull his hair and call him whatever she wants and he gets her off. It’s another one of their _understandings,_ something they don’t really talk about.

He doesn’t mind. He holds her thighs gently, keeping her over his mouth. She squirms when his tongue delves inside her. He likes her like this, hand reached behind her, over his underwear. She feels him through the fabric.

Gently, he bites her inner thigh, teeth sinking into soft flesh. She jerks with a whine.

“Asshole,” She spits, tugging at him. It’s the nicest thing she’s said to him all night. _Asshole, dick, bitch, asswipe, piece of shit, motherfucker._ She’s already gone through her list. “You’re such a fucking dick,” She hisses, and really, she has a lot of gut for somebody that has zero space between her privates and razorsharp teeth ready to come through, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Veronica’s words don’t hurt him, not right now. She’s just angry and he knows that. She’ll go back to loving him in a few hours, cuddling with him like nothing ever happened, because that’s just how their relationship is. That’s how their reality is.

She cards her fingers through his hair, gentle this time, and he watches the anger drain from her face as she gasps a near-silent, “ _Oh_.”

He’s heard that sound before. This is far from being their first time; he’s lost count of how many times she’s ripped out his hair and how many bruises he’s left on her. She’s afraid of breaking him, a thought that makes him laugh. He loves her, adores her, but he doesn’t think she actually has any strength in her. He could snap her over his knee.

He wouldn’t, of course, but it’s possible.

And he’s told her that a few times, a joke that inadvertently came off as a warning. At the end of the day, she’s just a twenty-some-year-old and he’s, well, a four thousand year old evil. She doesn’t think he’s evil, at least.

He thinks about it later that night, after she’s cleaned herself up and draped herself over him. He can hear her heartbeat, reassure himself that no, he didn’t accidentally kill her in a moment of fumbling. 

He doesn’t mind her being human, besides the whole _rapidly approaching death_. Fifty more years is nothing to him, and once that time is up, she’s gone forever. He’s a monster, not a fucking medium. He can’t see her whenever. And he can’t fathom saying goodbye. He doesn’t think he can function without her. He likes her warmth too much and he likes her smell; likes the taste of her blood (okay, so he sucked on a papercut once, it isn’t weird) and the tremble of her heart in her chest. He likes that she bruises easily, and that her neck is tender.

Then, there’s the human shit he _doesn’t_ like. Knowing that she’s going to rot in the ground one day; that she’s so susceptible to harm, that a single trip down the stairs could kill her, things like food poisoning, heart attacks, strokes, car accidents, overdoses, it never ends. Knowing that he’s been alive for longer than any of her remaining ancestors and that if he doesn’t go through with his little _idea,_ the real shitty one that might drive her to murder him, he’ll outlive her.

“Do you think I’m evil?” He mumbles. Her fingers scratch his scalp lightly, faltering.

“No,” She plainly says, though with such certainty that he doesn’t think she’s lying. “I think your nature is, but I don’t think you are. What you’re born to do doesn’t necessarily define you,” She sounds more unsure this time, but he catches her point.

It’s almost funny.

He doesn’t laugh, because really, he doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s a lot more conscious than Veronica gives him credit for. He isn’t some saint in a bad situation; he’s chosen to make his moves. Chose to kill outside of survival, and didn’t blink an eye after.

He’s _choosing_ to take her life into his hands, choosing to change her path, and she’s telling him he’s good.

“Do _you_ think you’re evil?” She questions. He doesn’t answer her.

**XXX**

He can’t remember the last time he ingested anything besides human flesh. He doesn’t mind picking at her food, and he doesn’t mind drinking the lemonade she pours in his cup. She’s proud of this -- made it herself. He’ll probably vomit it up later, but that’s something she doesn’t have to know about.

He spent the night thinking about her, not that it’s anything _new_ , but it put some of his thoughts in order. She’s still young, he has to act when she’s young, before she has the chance to get sick. He can’t just fuck around and pray she doesn’t slip from his fingers.

He remembers their soul conversation, hurts a little because he doesn’t know if that’ll change. Doesn’t know if she’d have any place to go if something somehow happened. Maybe back to hell, down the hole that he crawled out of, but who is he kidding? She won’t be able to die.

He’s been shot, stabbed, even burned before and walked away fine. He’s doing the best thing possible for her. Nobody will be able to hurt her again. That’s the only reason he’s doing this.

JD’s nails chip into the table. He doesn’t like lying to himself.

But he hates lying to her more.

“Can I bite you?” He asks. His voice is steadier than he feels. Just a quick bite, and then she’ll be with him forever. She visibly shocks, falters, and looks at him like a deer caught in headlights. He remains stoic.

“Uh,” He watches her struggle for words, “Like, sexually? Cause I think you’re a little late on that one,” She pulls her shirt down to show a mess of black and blue, tiny puncture marks from his teeth.

He fights away a sigh. Watching her expression, he wills his teeth forward, shooting out like daggers.

He watches her struggle with the pitcher, nearly dropping the glass to the ground.

“Please don’t eat me,” She says, and he laughs. He’s far past wanting to eat her. She blanches, pale as a ghost, and his laugh dies down.

Oh yeah, he scares her.

“No, darling, I mean claim you,” He taps one of his teeth, choosing his words carefully. _Claim, keep, steal,_ whatever he wants to call it. It’s the same thing. “Claiming might not be the right word, but...keep you. To keep you, not claim.”

He’s old, ancient, even. He’s had a lot of time to think about things, though mortality has never been at the top of his list. People tend to be more on the dinner side of the spectrum, not so much on the _lover_ side. And he isn’t one to wonder _what if,_ what if he was human, what if he was normal, because it honestly seems rather stupid in retrospect, but the thought is prominent now more than ever.

Any universe he could have existed in, any other plane of existence, and they had to be in the one where she’s more fragile than a twig.

He watches her throat dip.

“Is that something weird?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Think of it as an I love you,” He says, hoping his voice doesn’t tremble. Not because of fear, he knows she loves him, too, even if it’s a bit of a delusion. But because this is the first time he’s said it, and that’s kind of a monumental thing when you’re as old as he is.

“I can’t exactly marry you. I can probably get you pregnant, y’know,” he continues. He doesn’t want to find out anyway. “You’d probably die, and it’d most likely tear through your body, but I still probably could.”

She sets the pitcher down, skin visibly clammy.

“And biting me is harmless?”

He nods. He hates lying to her.

“Then why do you want to do it?”

He scratches his kneecap. “It’s hot,” He lies, like he doesn’t find everything she does already attractive.

“Then bite,” She tells him. It hurts, her trust, confidence, in him _hurts_ , and she’s going to be flaming mad when this is all set and done.

He crouches in front of her, sweeps her hair to the side and feels along her collarbone, sighing. “Such a pretty body. So breakable. So human.”

He leans in, smells her, reminds himself that this is for a good reason, and licks over her skin. Before she can say anything, he sinks his teeth into her.

She screams, loud and high-pitched, louder than he’s ever heard her before. She clutches his shoulder and weeps, and he deals with the uncomfortable burning of his body as he does something he really shouldn’t.

She begs for him to stop. He doesn’t. When it ends, he licks over the wound, tasting blood.

“Mine,” He mumbles, lips coated in her blood. 

**XXX**

She still hasn’t figured it out, and he doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. They speak of death over a Stephen King book, and she smiles and laughs, oblivious to the life she’s being forced into.

 _Good or bad_ might not exist in this situation; grey, maybe, morally grey, because he didn’t do this to be _evil._ He did it because he loves her, because she’s porcelain and the world isn’t meant for porcelain people.

He doesn’t think the world was meant for him, either, but that’s just how it played out.

**XXX**

The next time he has sex with her, it feels wrong. Not _bad,_ he likes any sex with her, but wrong, like he’s intruding. She holds onto him with too much trust, too much love for somebody that stabbed her in the back; the kind of love you’d give a high school sweetheart, and not some evil being that crawled out of the ground.

She mouths the shell of his ear, nips at it and giggles, mumbling something about _I love you_ , and he feels a little more of himself slip down the hole.

She shudders, nails digging into his shoulder blades, and for the first time since they’ve been together, he winces.

She never realizes, but she makes him bleed.

**XXX**

He notices it before she does. She’s a little less warm at night, a little less hungry; a little less _Veronica._

She mentions pain in quick passing, never elaborating because _‘it’s a human thing’_ but he knows it’s bad. Period pains, she said.

And he just watches from afar, sits in his designated spots and watches her slowly become an atrocity; the walking definition of _abhorrent,_ and know that it’s all his fault. 

**XXX**

When the anger comes, it comes quick, and it comes hard. She hits him in the chest and he feels it, bruises, even, and it does nothing but send her further into a frenzy.

She tells him she hates him at a certain point, though it’s lost within the curses and her hysteria. This is the part of human that he doesn’t understand; mourning the loss of something, because he can’t remember the last time he’s had to say _goodbye._

They never got to that point.

He mourned the thought of losing her, the knowledge that, at one point, he would have had to. He doesn’t mourn anymore. Hurts, because she does, but not mourn.

They have forever now, and he’s selfish enough to care about that more than her tears.

“I made you mine,” He says. A fact, more than anything else. “Nothing has changed, you’re still Ronnie.”

He can’t take that from her, he wouldn’t try to. That’s the thing that’ll always come through. She sniffles and wipes at her nose.

“Don’t worry. You still have a soul. I can’t take that from you. I wouldn’t,” He doesn’t know how much of that is a lie.

“So I’m stuck like this?”

“Unless somebody kills you, yes,” He says in a _don’t-get-any-ideas_ way. They wouldn’t get the chance. He glances at the clock — it’s six. “C’mon, darling. It’s dinner time. I know your stomach hurts.”

**XXX**

“I love you,” He tells her one time, his lips at her jaw. She isn’t warm anymore, but she’s still her. She stares dully at the ceiling, stiff. 

“Fuck you,” She mutters. It’s always the same. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you._ He doesn’t think anger begins to cover her emotions.

“You love me, too. You’re just mad,” Of course, there’s no proven accuracy to his words. There’s the subtle doubt that maybe he’s _wrong_ , maybe he was an object of interest and not the love she swore by.

He looks at her, looks at the speck in her dark eyes and sees anger, but somehow, in the tiniest form, also a blot of _relief._

So when she says, “Fuck you, Jason Dean,” he knows she doesn’t mean it.

He sleeps a little better that night.

**XXX**

Her confession of love doesn’t come in a big moment, but rather over a cigarette. She has her feet propped up on the balcony, her fifth cigarette of the night hanging loosely between her fingers. He watches smoke blow through her nose.

“You know I love you,” She states it, never asks, “I love you a whole fucking lot.”

“I thought you were angry at me,” He replies. He feels a part of him unmelt, a little speck of hope that maybe not all is lost. She lolls her head onto her shoulder, smiling at him. A snarky, but playful smile, her old smile. Her other teeth are retracted.

Black eyes glint back at him.

“Fucking pissed,” She admits, “I’m surprised I haven’t snuffed you out. You’re a fucking dick, by the way,” her smile, uneven, white teeth, tells a different story than her words. “I’m gonna get you for it one day.”

She allows her hand to fall over the armrest of her seat, offering herself to him. When he takes it, her hold is hesitant, but not regretful. She still loves him.

“We have forever. Take your time.”

The smile slips into a laugh, “That’s a long time, huh?”

He wants to say something cheesy, something stupid like _no time is enough with you,_ but she just started liking him again so he might not want to feed her shitty movie lines. “Time goes by quickly. You don’t even notice it.”

It’s different for him, easy to say that because he’s never had to deal with the effects of time. She’ll have to watch her loved ones die, assuming she can even see them. Her teeth have started to poke past her lips. She’ll look like him in no time.

But he’d rather not kill the buzz, so he bites his tongue.

“Lot of time to kill,” She exhales smoke through her nose. He watches her face contort into a curious, almost impish expression. “Hey, do you think people would be able to see us if we fucked on here? Maybe over the railing, I’m feeling testy tonight.”

He blanches and her grin widens. The Cheshire Cat. 

“We could do this chair, too, but this shit is kind of old and you’re not really all that gentle,” she just keeps on talking, not a single shit given about the shock she’s sent him into, “Honestly, JD, I’m surprised you _didn’t_ kill me beforehand.”

She laughs, an unpleasant, but genial sound, and he shuts her up with a kiss.

* * *

_I am like decay  
_ _I rot the ground to guide your way_

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: spookshow-babie. (feel free to message but only 18+, please)


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